Why Every Project Becomes a Smaller Project

There’s a universal truth in woodworking that no one warns you about when you start: every project eventually becomes a smaller project. It doesn’t matter what you set out to build — a box, a shelf, a table, a specialty item for a family member who thinks you’re a miracle worker — sooner or later, you’ll trim one mistake, then another, then another, until the project is roughly the size of a Pop‑Tart. And even then, you’ll probably sand off another 1/16” just to “clean it up.”

It always starts with confidence. Dangerous confidence. I sketch a beautiful design, full of ambition and optimism, and I think, “This is going to be perfect.” And for about 30 seconds, it is. Then I make the first cut. And the second cut. And the third cut, which I only made because the first two were wrong. Suddenly the project is already 10% smaller and I’m telling myself, “It’s fine, it’s more… compact now.”

The real trouble begins when I try to fix something. Fixing things is my downfall. I’ll see a tiny gap — microscopic, barely visible, the kind of gap only a forensic carpenter could detect — and I’ll think, “I can fix that.” And that’s how a perfectly good board becomes a slightly smaller board, which becomes a noticeably smaller board, which becomes a board that no longer fits the design I drew. But do I redraw the design? Of course not. I just keep trimming until the project evolves into something else entirely.

This is how a jewelry box becomes a keepsake box, which becomes a trinket box, which becomes a “cute little mini box,” which becomes a coaster. I’ve made so many accidental coasters at this point that I could open a restaurant. A restaurant with very uneven tables, because I also made those.

And let’s not forget sanding — the silent killer of project dimensions. I start sanding with good intentions, just trying to smooth things out. But then I see a scratch. And another scratch. And a weird swirl mark that I swear wasn’t there before. So I sand more. And more. And suddenly the lid that used to fit perfectly now fits only if you apply gentle pressure, a small prayer, and maybe a clamp. I’ve sanded projects down so much they qualify as thin crust.

Sometimes the shrinking happens because I’m trying to “square things up.” This is hilarious, because nothing in my shop is square. Not the boards, not the jigs, not the table, not my sense of direction. I’ll take a piece to the table saw to “just clean up the edge,” and by the time I’m done cleaning up all four edges, the project has lost an inch on every side and now looks like it was designed for a dollhouse.

The best part is when I try to hide the shrinking from myself. I’ll hold the piece up to the original sketch and think, “It’s not that much smaller.” Then I’ll hold it up again and think, “Okay, maybe a little smaller.” Then I’ll hold it up a third time and realize the sketch looks like a blueprint for a completely different species of furniture. But by then I’m committed. I tell myself it’s “intentional,” “minimalist,” or “European.” Anything to avoid admitting I trimmed it into oblivion.

And of course, my family never knows the original size I intended, so they think everything I make is adorable. “Oh wow, this is so cute!” they say, holding the tiny box that used to be a medium box that used to be a large box that used to be a majestic design on paper. I smile and say thank you, pretending I didn’t just lose a full quarter of the project to “corrections.”

In the end, shrinking a project is just part of my woodworking process. It’s practically a signature style at this point. Some woodworkers are known for their joinery, some for their finishes, some for their artistic flair. Me? I’m known for starting big and finishing… efficiently sized. Compact. Space‑saving. Travel‑friendly. Let’s call it “intentional downsizing.”

And honestly, I’ve made peace with it. Because even if the project ends up smaller than planned, it still carries the same amount of heart, effort, and accidental comedy. And if it gets too small? Well… that’s what the scrap bin is for. And we both know I’ll use it “someday.”